


Trinity

by VerdantMoth



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, Developing Relationship, Kissing, Multi, Polyamorous Character, Polyamory, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-08-23 14:18:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16620623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantMoth/pseuds/VerdantMoth
Summary: It gets a little sporty in public, sometimes. It’s easy to see that Arthur and Mordred are together. The way they stop and snog under light post and in front of stores. There’s an easy affection between them, a constant need to be in each other’s space, to brush shoulders, bump hips.





	Trinity

 

Mordred approaches him first, with the idea. He’s shy about it, careful in his approach when he points the blonde out to Merlin. “I’ve seen it, the way you watch him. How you speak to him. You feel it too, the rush. The undeniable pull.

Merlin wants to deny it, to argue. Wants to accuse Mordred. Because he sees the hunger in Mordred’s eyes, sees the way they slide across Arthur’s skin. How he devours each inch slowly, almost painfully. Starved, both in the same way as Merlin and in a way so different he wonders how Mordred survives.

Arthur, for his part, seems unsurprised when they approach him hand in hand. His grin is feral and predatory and his eyes look upon them like a feast. Merlin knows there was a conversation. Some hemming, some hawing. A lot of beating around the bush before Mordred had blurted “So go with us?”

To a diner, to a movie, to bed. Honestly, the whole of the beginning is one strange blur of them figuring things out. Of them explaining.

```

Sometimes Merlin is bitterly jealous of Mordred. Of the way he gets to experience Arthur. He watches, enjoys the show, the joining of bodies. He likes the way Arthur undoes Mordred, makes him keen and weep and buck. He loves the way Mordred takes Arthur apart, the way he absolutely mewls and sobs and clutches. After, when they’re exhausted and spent, Merlin will take a rag and sooth them. If he’s feeling particularly involved he’ll mouth over the crescents on their hips, the bruises on their neck, soothing them with his tongue. The inescapable hunger still seeps through his cracks, but it’s only faint, almost undetectable.

Sometimes Arthur looks like he’s begging for more. Begging for Merlin’s fingers to track the silk of his skin the way Mordred’s do, for his tongue to delve into his crevices. Mordred usually pins Arthur in those moments, holds him captive with his hips, his tongue; his teeth if Arthur still looks starved.

Merlin sits in his chair in the corner and watches, that strange, distant warmth flooding his belly, sitting there uselessly. It’s never enough to spur him to action.

Sometimes he leaves them too it, confused by the absence of the feeling in his loins.

````

Occasionally he wonders if Mordred wants Arthur for the physical aspect. If that was his original goal. If he wanted what Merlin couldn’t give him so desperately, he went out and found a way to take it. Merlin had tried, a few times. There in the beginning. Merlin wants the love, the unbreakable bond.

He knows he is wrong to think that of Mordred, who’d held him when he’d sobbed his apologies into Mordred’s chest. Mordred had never questioned Merlin’s disinterested, had never begrudge him the constant softness. Not once in their five years had he asked Merlin for anything more than Merlin offered, and never had he raised his voice in anger when Merlin’s body did not react to him.

````

Arthur is usually the first to pick up on Merlin’s mood. The first to notice the distance in their third partner. He’s never subtle in his approach, in the way he strips himself of his shirt, strips Mordred, strips Merlin. Maybe it's a selfish thought that Merlin wishes it was just him at times. The thought is always thought is discarded quickly, almost driven away..

Mordred catches on quickly, always ushers them to the bed where they place Merlin in the center.

Merlin becomes entangled in arms and legs. One chest to his own, one to his back. He likes the skin to skin, likes the warmth of his men and the way he can feel their hearts beating. He’ll trace their pulse points with the tips of his fingers. They will place chaste kisses along his jaws, keep their hands locked together on his hips. Fused together.

Merlin can feel the way it affects them, feel it poking into his back and his belly, but they say nothing, they do nothing, and eventually it fades. Usually they fall asleep that way, and wake up a sweaty tangle.

They make him tea then, swaddle him in a blanket and stroke his hair. Sometimes it’s enough, sometimes it’s not even close.

````

Mordred has a favorite way to hold each of them. He likes to be at Merlin’s back, curled around him. Possessive and intense, with his chin hooked over Merlin’s shoulder and his hands at Merlin’s waist. He’s controlling, but Merlin never voices that.

With Arthur though, he wants to be held. He wants Arthur stretched along him, weighing him down. Merlin thinks he just likes the weight of Arthur, though he’s careful not to voice that thought too loudly.

Arthur for his part likes to be on the edge. He doesn’t care who is in the middle, so long as he can leave his back open, so that he can move freely and at a moment’s notice. He like tangling his fingers in the hair of the body in front of him. To lean up on his elbows and watch both of them. To stare lovingly at both of their sleeping form.

````

It gets a little sporty in public, sometimes. It’s easy to see that Arthur and Mordred are together. The way they stop and snog under light post and in front of stores. There’s an easy affection between them, a constant need to be in each other’s space, to brush shoulders, bump hips.

Merlin walks beside them. He knows people mistake him for Mordred’s brother, or for a strange tag along friend. He knows because he sees the envious looks shot at Arthur and Mordred, and the sympathetic ones directed at him.

Mordred is usually the one to spot the confused stare when he reaches for Merlin’s hand, when Arthur reaches for the other and they brace him between them. He’ll stare at the person, eyes wide and intense. He’s begging them to say something, begging them to comment. Arthur just tuts at him and leans around Merlin to kiss Mordred’s cheek, They never let go of Merlin.

````

Mordred is the moodiest of the bunch, surprisingly. The one who most often needs space. Merlin is never sure how to help him. If he’s supposed to go to him, to hold him, or if he should just leave him be. Arthur usually makes him a cup of tea. Then he pulls Merlin out of the flat and drags him to the grocery store, the bookstore, the coffee shop. Arthur showers him in affection, boasts to the world with his body that Merlin’s his.

Mordred always finds them late in the evening, on a bench in the park. He comes bearing a sleepy grin and pastries.

They sit in silence and study the stars until Mordred speaks, telling them mundane things he notices about the people in the park. Like the young couple who’re most definitely drinking. The old man who doesn't seem to notice his dog eating his dinner. The young woman who doesn’t notice the old man noticing her.

Arthur lets him speak, and just listens, but Merlin will sometimes add his own stories to the mix. Outlandish, ridiculous ideas, about how the old man is a CIA operative and the teens are international spies and the woman is an alien’s companion.

He makes Mordred laugh, and Arthur snort and all is well for the night.

````

They don’t fight often, but when they do it is loud and vicious and in for the kill. Mordred pokes at the spots he knows are sore. Tongue sharp against things Merlin has already apologized for, things Arthur refuses to acknowledge.

Merlin is sly. Underhanded comments and half-sighs. He sulks and whines and reminds them of all the things he’s done for them, all the things they’ve promised him.

Arthur goes deathly quiet. He doesn’t say anything. Just sits and broods and stares.

Mordred usually caves first, a kiss to each cheek and a whispered apology. Merlin will bake something sweet and run his hands through their hair.

Arthur sulks for hours, sometimes days. He won’t speak to either of them, just curls up on the left side of their impossibly large bed and stares at the wall. When he’s finally done being mad he’ll stroll through the door with a smile and wild flowers and tell them “We should get a dog.”

````

They talk about marriage sometimes, about the logistics and legalities. They could do it in three different countries, in three different ceremonies. There’d be a lack of recognized legitimacy, but that doesn’t matter to them. It’s the idea of it, the spirit that counts.

In the end, they decide to do a ceremony with their friends. Something simple, three matching tuxes, wildflower boutonnieres. Gwen cooks and Lance ‘officiates’ and Gwaine gets totally drunk and dances with all of them.

It’s a silly affair lit by twinkling blue and red bulbs, held in the park. People mill around and though they don’t quite get what's happening, the whole thing becomes a grand party with students playing pop songs and kids dancing barefoot on the grass. It's unmistakably beautiful.

Merlin surprises them with thin bands, one sodalite, one garnet, and one topaze for himself. The perfect representation of their strange, blended love.

 


End file.
